Modal_Jazz

So you want to be a pop star?
Take this white powder,
You need to fit in.
Pull yourself closer
To death's orbit.
Only then,
Can you truly sing
This is is how it works 
For you. 

 This is not poetry! It’s not in verse, it’s lines run the width of the page and it is dotted with  periods. See those swaying pines in an ocean, that can never be poetry. It is described in a paragraph.

In a world full of precious jewels,
Signed papers,
Gold-stamped certificates,
Medals to hang—

I find
The greatest accolade
To be my own words—
A pen’s ink on paper—
My Word Coat—

Like black dots on a staff

Life
What a silly game
In the universe’s dark corner
In mortals’ cast-iron frame 
How keen of her to remind us 
We exist for our strife

Maybe however 
The cosmos reveals—
Subtle yet keen—

In spring’s blooming days
You could hear Winter’s 
Last whisper:
“This tree is bare often.
Sacrifice the leaves,
The stocks of flowers,
The greenest grass.
So that the old Can be 
destroyed.”

In night’s wondering days
Or in daylight’s brightest rays
The fluttering pen
Could not be shunned

In spring's gracious yield,
Or in an army battlefield,
The empowering voice 
Could not be hushed